Читать книгу The Daughter of a Soldier: A Colleen of South Ireland - L. T. Meade - Страница 5

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If there was a town which was unlike any other town that was ever built, it was Kingsala by the sea. Kingsala had a land-locked harbour and an outer harbour beyond that, and beyond that again the mighty Atlantic with its rolling waves; and nothing between it and America. Kingsala lived for itself. It had in especial its World's End, a part of the town much respected by the poor folk. Here the fish were put out to dry, and the little half-naked children raced about in the sunshine. They were dark-eyed, dark-browed, dark-complexioned, and it was a well-known fact that their ancestors came from Spain in the time of the Spanish Armada, when those who were saved settled down at the World's End. Here they married bonny, bright-eyed Irish girls, and from that day to this their children were dark and wild and fierce, with the blood of the Spanish mariner in their veins.

But beyond the World's End came the town. The town was most peculiar. It had no foot-paths, and was full of large and straggling houses. The principal street in the town was called Fisher Street. This led to the Stony Way on the right, and on the left to the Long Quay. There was also the Short Quay or Patrick's Quay. The houses were very capacious and even handsome, and although the street view in Fisher Street was ugly enough, the back view made up for everything, for each house, at least on the sea-side, looked out on a garden beautifully kept, with a low wall at the far end. In the centre of the wall was a little gate. Opening the gate, you went down wooden steps to where a boat was fastened. You had but to loosen the boat and step into her and float away into the land-locked harbour, or, if you liked, go farther into the outer harbour.

In the summer time the whole of the beautiful land-locked harbour was covered with a sort of phosphorescence, which caused the water to look like living fire. Many a young lad who lived in Kingsala spent the night in the inner harbour, stretched fast asleep in the bottom of his boat. In the evenings hardly any of the "Quality," as they were called, were seen in the streets. They were as a rule floating about in the harbour, singing, chattering, laughing, or exchanging confidences one with another. The land-locked inner harbour was in the summer months transformed into a sort of drawing-room, where friends met friends, exchanged the news—very small and very local—and arranged picnics at the Platters and Dishes the next day.

The "Quality" of Kingsala had little or nothing to do. They were without exception gentlefolks living on their means. Work was a thing unheard of; it was not gentlemanly. You might fish, you might hunt, but work for a living—never. Pleasure was the order of the hour.

Kingsala was what was called a "soft" place, which expression means that in the summer the sun was bright and glorious without being too hot, and that in winter the mists fell, although nobody minded them in the least. It is true they shut out all views of the lovely harbour, with its Old Fort at one side and its Charles Fort at the other. Frost hardly ever visited this part of the world, but the finest of fine rain blotted out the view completely. On these occasions the girls—and very handsome girls they were—put on their waterproofs and flirted with the officers in the garrison-town, meeting them in a place which was called The Green, and enjoying life to the uttermost. These girls never thought about age. They wanted to have a good time, and they could not possibly tell you what age they were; the subject of age was taboo at Kingsala. The people were good-natured and most neighbourly.

If a very poor family of little or no means took a house there, the said family lived as a matter of course on their neighbours, breakfasting in one house, lunching in another, having a picnic tea in another, and dining in a fourth. They were always welcome. They lived practically for nothing, except for the small trifle they paid for the rent of their dwelling. Certainly Kingsala was the home for the very poor, but it had one peculiarity which greatly added to its many charms.

Leaving the sea behind you, you walked up Break Heart Hill or the Green Hill or the Stony Steps, whereupon you found yourself on what we will call the Round Hill. Here were to be seen spacious houses, where those who really had money resided. Here were to be found the aristocracy of the little place.

Walking over the Round Hill, you obtained a view of every part and every side of the inner harbour, and it was here, in the very best position, that O'Brien's two trustees, O'More of Moresland and Walters of Walterscourt, resided side by side. They had each a large stone house, with big gardens and every imaginable luxury.

These men were, for Kingsala, thought very rich indeed. Walters was perhaps the richer, but O'More had the bigger heart.

On the night before his intended visit to these good gentlemen, the Rev. Patrick O'Brien wrote a letter to each telling them that he meant to see them both at O'More's house on the following day. He said in his letter, "I particularly want to see you both together. The matter is of urgent moment, and I trust you will both manage to meet me at Moresland."

The two trustees certainly did manage to meet Mr. O'Brien. He took a circuitous drive to Moresland in order to avoid the steepest of the hills; thus he had to pass through the World's End. The smell of the drying fish was very distinct, and Dominic found himself sniffing somewhat disdainfully, whereupon his father said, "Why now, my brave avick, whatever are you turning up your nose for?"

"I'm sorry, pater; but I must say it's a nasty smell," said the boy. "The place looks so terribly dirty, and all those fish hanging out to dry give me an uncomfortable feeling."

"Ah, laddie, it's plain to be seen, you don't know your Ireland as you ought. Now, listen. I can tell you a hit of a yarn. It's as true as you are sitting by my side. There was a farmer man, O'Donovan by name, who owned a biteen of land, no bigger than a quarter of an acre, just beyond the Beyonds, and he took it into his numbskull, after making his fortune by that fish that you despise, to visit London town and see the world. He was taken ill there, and not all the sights of great London could cure him—not the King's Palace, nor the Crystal Palace, nor the two great cathedrals (Westminster and St. Paul's), nor the Picture Galleries. He looked at them all, forsooth, but not a word did he utter, and he grew weaker and weaker until at last he wouldn't go out at all, and he lay on his bed moaning just piteous to hear. Well, avick, what do you think? He had made his home with a sister of his who was accustomed to the place, and she had a family of children and a husband, and she was shrewd enough to guess what ailed him, and she also knew what would cure him, so she sent very privately to her brother, who was still curing fish at the World's End, and one morning what should arrive but a little parcel by post. It was packed up very shabby, and the postman didn't seem to think much of it; but she sprang on it, and told the postman to be off and about his business, for she had got something that would cure her brother. She opened the parcel just under the sick man's nose. He was nearly gone by then, but when he smelt the fish—the dear little bit of dried fish, which the shabby little parcel contained, he raised himself upright in bed and cried aloud with a great strong voice, 'My native air, my native air,' and he hugged the fish to him and kept sniffing and sniffing; and the sister, being a knowing body, packed him back to his native air, and he's as well as ever now. Why, talk of angels, O'Donovan, there you are yourself. The blessings of the morning on you; and how are you finding yourself this beautiful day?"

A rough-looking, red-haired man came up. His nose was nothing to speak of, but his eyes were blue as the sky.

"Ah, and it's your Riverence," he cried. "As to me, I'm as strong and hearty as can be. Why, it was dying I was in that horrid London. The breath was nearly out of me; but my native air soon pulled me round. Biddy was a cute woman, your Riverence. But come now, you don't look too well yourself, Mr. O'Brien. It's me that is sorry to see you so poorly-like. And is that your young son, sir? May Heaven bless him. He's a real fine avick, but my recommend for you is to come and live in the World's End, your Riverence. You'd soon get back your hearty ways in a place like this."

"I'm afraid the air would not have quite the same effect on me, O'Donovan," said the Rector, with that beautiful gentle smile of his. "I am glad to see you so hearty, my man. But now, I must hurry on, for I have an appointment with Mr. O'More and can't keep him waiting."

"And far be it from me to detain your Riverence. Ah, well, the Quality, they will have their fads. There's no place like the World's End. Ye could live there for ever and ever, Amen."

"Well, good-bye, O'Donovan. My blessings on you," said the Rector.

A few minutes later the Rector and the boy were shown into a large, handsomely furnished dining-room at Moresland, where both Walters and O'More were waiting for him. Each man gave the Rector a hearty greeting, and each man shook hands with Dominic and looked him straight in the eyes.

A minute or two later a rough-looking wench appeared with a silver tray piled with good things, which, as Mr. O'More remarked, "The youngster may tackle while we are talking business."

"Hot that you look too well yourself, O'Brien," said Walters.

"I'd hardly know you, man," said O'More. "Come now, have a glass of whisky punch—the very best in the land. The real potheen. It's hard to get in these times when the excise officers are so sharp, but Mary there keeps me well supplied. We'll just have a grand brew, and then you can tell us what is weighing on your mind."

The Rector certainly did feel strangely weak. But when Walters prepared the potheen, as he alone knew how, and when the three men found themselves with a brimming tumblerful each, "and a little one for the kid," said O'More, they were all about to sip the cordial when O'Brien interposed.

"Not for my boy, thank you, O'More. He never touches that sort of thing. He's in rude health, God bless him. As for me, I will take a sip or two, for I get fits of tiredness now and then; nothing to grumble at, the Lord's name be praised! But now, may I tell you why I've come?"

"We are prepared to listen," said O'More.

Then and there the story was told. The possibility—for the Rector did not make it more at that moment—of his own death; and his earnest desire that Maureen, the only child of his dead brother, should be left provided for; that in short she should have her share with Dominic and Denis and Kitty.

"I have," said the Reverend Patrick, "insured my life for five thousand pounds. I insured it in the London Assurance Company when I was a very young man, so that I have several good bonuses. In fact, my five thousand must be nearly six or seven thousand by now. In addition, I have, as you know, five thousand of my own private means. Now, my desire is, not being as strong as I could wish, to settle one-fourth of what I possess on my little Maureen. I suppose there will be no difficulty?" The Rector looked full up as he spoke, with his sweet, dark, handsome eyes. "There can be no difficulty, can there, O'More?"

"Marriage settlement," was Walters' interruption.

"Well, yes, I did make the settlement before I married my poor dear wife."

"And you settled all that money on her and her children?"

"I did, and would have settled ten times as much if I had had it to settle. But she has long gone to the Land of the Blessed. I have adopted Maureen, and must provide for her. I want a deed of gift to be drawn up, giving the child an equal share with her three cousins of whatever money there is when I pass from the world."

O'More looked at Walters. Walters rose and paced the room. He paced it once, and then twice; then he said abruptly, "The only way you can provide for Maureen, Patrick, old man, is by living yourself. There is no earthly reason why you should not live until your children are of age; then if they wish it, we can easily draw up a deed of gift."

"But my little Kitty is only six years old," said the Rector. "Ah, my friends, I can't live as long as that. I know it. I don't want to talk of it, but I know it."

"Father, dear father, we'll manage it somehow," interrupted Dominic.

"Sit down, laddie, and let your father speak," said Walters. "You are down-hearted, O'Brien."

"And for my part," said O'More, "I should like to know what is to become of your second wife. I hear plenty of talk of her being a very fine lady indeed. I suppose if such an unlikely thing did happen as your being called hence, she naturally would take care of the little one."

"Ah, there is the trouble," said O'Brien. "My wife has abundant means of her own. Fifty thousand pounds of her own, no less. She has two daughters, and she intends to spend all her money on them, and refuses to do anything for my pretty Maureen."

O'More suddenly got up, went over to Walters and whispered something into his ear. Walters nodded emphatically.

"Perhaps we have no right to tell you, sir," said O'More, "but I think the time has arrived for you to get a bit of comfort out of it. At the time of her marriage your second wife was madly in love with you. Was that not so?"

"I thought it was so at the time," said O'Brien. "Well, she proved it in a very decisive way, for we both received a letter from her lawyers in London, Messrs. Debenham and Druce, who told us that she had made a will in your favour, and that if by any chance she died before you, her property was to be equally divided between you, and her children and yours, including Maureen by name."

"Constance couldn't have said that," said the Rector.

"She did. It is all in black and white. And I have a copy of the will, which I asked the London lawyers for, and Maureen's name is mentioned."

"Ah, well," said the Rector, rising, "she is a strong woman and still quite young. I have but little chance of surviving her."

"She has made that will in your favour," said Walters sententiously. "And as far as I can tell has never altered it. Even the youngest of us cannot but remember that in the midst of life we are in death. But I must tell you plainly, O'Brien, that your settlement cannot possibly be altered until your youngest child comes of age."

On their way home young Dominic did all that he could to cheer and help his father.

"You must lie down when you get in, dad, and afterwards Maureen and I will give you a right good time on the periwinkles. Think of it, dad—chocolate and strawberries and cream, and Maureen and I! Oh, let's be happy in the present."